Bitter Form of Refuge
by some blue december
Summary: Bleeding, bruised, and mourning the loss of two of his buddies ... When the bottom falls out from under his world, there's only so much comfort Steve can find in a bottle.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own _The Outsiders_ by S.E. Hinton, or "A Dustland Fairytale" by The Killers.

**A/N:** This one shot ties into _Born to Run_ and_ Should've Known It_.

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**Saturday, September 17th, 1966**

_I saw the devil wrapping up his hand,  
__He's getting ready for the showdown.  
__I saw the ending when they turned the page,  
__I threw my money and I ran away_

_Quality Tennessee Sour Mash Whiskey_. At least that's what the bottle said. Personally, Steve thought it tasted like shit. He looked at the bottle in his hand, drunkenly taking in everything that was wrong with it.

For starters, it was half empty. The stuff might taste like crap, but it was crap he wanted - crap he needed. Crap that he so badly wanted to have spill over the front path by smashing the bottle on the ground in front of him. But he couldn't because he needed it. It was too damn vital to his sanity.

Secondly, the label was ripped, torn, and shredded at the edges. Two-Bit had told him once that ripping at bottle labels was a sign of sexual frustration, and Steve was just now beginning to wonder if it was true. It hadn't been that long - only a couple of nights ago, in fact - but it wasn't the length of time that mattered. It was who it had been with. Had it been with someone else - the right someone else - he would be happy, he would be with her right then, he would be getting looked after like he should have been.

He wouldn't have been ripping the label on his bottle of whiskey out of sheer frustration.

Thirdly, lastly, and most fucking unbearably, the bottle reminded him of _her_.

There was nothing about the bottle or the contents of the bottle that could be associated with her; it was brand new, stolen from his old man's stash not two hours ago. The glass had never been warmed by her hands. She had never placed her lips against it, grimacing at the taste of his drink of choice. The amber liquid inside had nothing on the colour of her hair, eyes, or skin.

Sitting on the front porch, shirt still unbuttoned from when he'd been resting on Soda's couch, Steve took another drink; he sure was a dramatic drunk. But he didn't care; he was drunk, the alcohol was keeping him warm, and he was sick of all the bullshit.

Not that it mattered. He might have been sick of the bullshit, but he would take whatever it gave him … even if it meant spending the night thinking about her, remembering her, being completely fucking pathetic because he wasn't with her.

And Christ he wanted to be with her. He needed to be with her.

His ribs hurt. Three of them were broken. It paled in comparison to everything else, though. Not just being with the wrong girl, or being worried about the kid, but _everything_.

He clenched his jaw, not wanting to think about it. That was why he was torturing himself by thinking about her, after all; despite how crap it made him feel, it was a whole lot easier than thinking about what had just happened.

Who cared that they had beat the Socs? Who cared that his ribs were broken? Who fucking cared that he was with the wrong girl? None of it mattered, not anymore.

Johnny and Dallas …

He took another drink. Fuck the lot of them. Everyone could go to hell for all he cared. Well, maybe not everyone. Not Soda, Darry, and Pony. Not Two-Bit, and definitely not Dally and Johnny.

Shit.

Getting up, he swayed slightly before making his way across the front lawn. He needed to stop thinking about them before he started crying like a little bitch again. He needed someone to tell him everything was going to be okay.

Fuck it all, he needed Anna.

He could remember when she had sat with him on the old car bench seat in the lot, drinking whiskey, and talking about her family. She had subtly offered him comfort that night. Not the kind of comfort she had later, when he had arrived home to find a woman who wasn't his mother cooking in his kitchen, but comfort nonetheless.

Comfort from Anna sure sounded nice in the miserable state he was in right then.

After getting pretty plastered from the whiskey, feeling like an idiot for crying, and having three broken ribs, all he really wanted was his girl … even if she wasn't his girl anymore.

She hated him, he was sure of it. Since she'd found out he was back with Evie, they argued constantly about anything and everything. And it was always nasty. So fucking nasty that he couldn't stand it. But, just this once, he was hoping she had enough pity for him to see him. His pride _could_ go to hell for all he cared; he just needed to see her. Going to his girlfriend would make more sense, but nothing about the whole night made any sense so he pushed that idea away and decided not to care.

He frowned as he stopped in front of Anna's place, surprised he was already there. Her brother and Tim were sitting outside, and that confused him. They should be at Buck's. That's what everyone had been talking about after the rumble. Only reason he and the guys hadn't gone was because Pony and Dallas had taken off, and they all knew they'd gone to see Johnny.

Turning up at his ex-girlfriends place as drunk as he was wasn't such a hot idea. Especially with her brother home. Despite having his back in the rumble - literally, when he had pulled the guy kicking at Steve's ribs off of him - Danny glared at him when he stumbled up the path, still carrying the bottle of whiskey. Steve knew there was no chance of seeing Anna, even as he spilled everything - how Dally and Johnny had died, the kid being in hospital, wanting - fucking _needing_ - to see Anna.

Danny stopped looking at him like he wanted to kick his head in for a moment, and Tim looked as though he didn't believe a word he had said. They both stared at him until Tim, looking a little sick, turned away and headed inside. Danny stayed where he was, watching Steve and seemingly thinking over his request to see Anna.

He said no; just as Steve knew he would. According to Danny, he almost wanted to let Steve inside, but knew that letting him see Anna in the state he was in would just hurt her even more. Steve nodded, disappointment flowing through him even though he completely agreed. He was a mess; even drunk as he was he knew that. If he saw Anna, he would use her, take whatever she was willing to offer him, and still be with Evie the next day.

He left without another word - drinking back his whiskey, and stumbling his way home. Going to see Evie didn't cross his mind once.

Sitting on the porch couch, he leaned his head back and thought about the kid. He might not get along with Pony all that well, but he sure hoped he was okay. Soda and Darry were with him now, and Steve thought he remembered Two-Bit saying something about going to Kathy. Or going home. Or going to Kathy's home. He shrugged to himself; he couldn't remember much about anything since seeing Dallas get shot.

Footsteps on the porch had his head shooting up, and he scrunched his eyes at the shot of pain that went through it. Opening them again, he saw Anna and said nothing.

She reluctantly sat next to him - but not really close enough to be considered next to him - and looked at him carefully. He was suddenly very aware of his unbuttoned shirt, and he would have smirked at her had he not felt so bad. Instead, he stared right back, remembering plenty of nights they'd spent making out on the very couch they were sitting on. He wondered if she remembered. He wondered why she was there.

He waited silently for her to say something, but she only looked away. He took another drink, averting his gaze straight ahead. Looking at Anna when she could barely look at him wasn't helping anything. He had wanted comfort from her, not the silent treatment he had been getting between arguments for the last two months. He especially didn't want to be ignored the way he was; it made him think, and that was the last thing he wanted. He looked at the couch he was sitting on, the purple and green flowers swimming in his vision. Fuck, he wished she'd say something.

Instead, she reached over and took the bottle from him, placing it on the ground next to her. He frowned, not impressed about that because he wanted to keep drinking - he wanted to forget - but didn't bother putting up a fight; he was just glad she was there.

But the silence was horrible - tense and uncomfortable and so damn painful his head began to pound. Leaning his elbows on his knees and running a hand through his already messy hair, he wished he could say something. He wished there was something to say that wouldn't end up in a fight or him trying not to cry _again_. Scowling, he just wished she didn't look as though she hated being there.

She stood, and he knew exactly what she was going to say. He reached out, grasping her wrist and pulling her hand to his face.

"Don't go," he muttered. "Just … please don't go."

She was trembling, and he hated himself for being so fucking selfish. She must hate him, but instead of yanking herself free like he fully expected her to, she slipped her wrist out of his grasp and held his hand. He could feel the hesitancy coming from her as she stepped closer, running a cool hand over his cheek. He leaned into her touch, so fucking desperate for her to be there that he'd take anything.

Still sending out the vibe that she didn't want to be there, still trembling in his hold, and still full of obvious uncertainty, she knelt next to him on the couch. Their hands were still entwined, resting on her lap, and he stared at them. He stared at them and saw Dallas falling to the ground. He stared at them and felt like a prick for not getting up the courage to go see Johnny. He stared at them and more tears burned his eyes.

He cursed softly, squeezing his eyes shut and lowering his head. Anna's hand slid to his neck and he leaned in. He was probably pushing it, but when all he could see was a dead Dallas and all he could imagine was a dying Johnny, he just didn't care. His ribs hurt, his eyes were wetter than he'd like, and he buried his face in the crook of Anna's neck.

She tensed, but seemed to slowly relax. He gripped her hand tighter as he let out a shaky breath and his body shook. Anna, finally realising what a fucking wimp he was, sighed.

"Oh, Steve," she whispered.

Again, she didn't pull away like he expected her too. Her arm around his shoulders, hand soothing his back, was enough to keep his breathing even; the scent of her skin against his nose, that summer-smelling perfume she always wore, was enough to clear his mind of images of dying friends; and the alcohol in his system was enough to convince himself it was two months earlier. He and Anna were together, Johnny never killed that Soc, and he and Dally were still alive.

His head was foggy, his eyes heavy, and he felt like an idiot. A part of him was still sure Anna hated him, and she was bound to use this against him. But a bigger part - the part that knew Anna wasn't the bitch he often claimed she was - knew she wouldn't tell a soul. He pulled back, not looking at her but not letting go of her hand. She still didn't pull away; she just sat with him, holding his hand. Surprisingly, it was enough.

Things were going to change now. He was piss drunk, and half his mind was on the feel of Anna willingly touching him, but he could see that things were going to change. It made him feel a little sick, realising two of his buddies were gone. Johnny, everyone's little brother, and Dally, a guy Steve had always kind of admired.

He didn't know when he fell asleep, but did know it was the warmth of Anna's hand he was thinking about as he drifted off. She was gone when he woke up, a blanket from the couch inside had been thrown over him, and his bottle of whiskey nowhere in sight.

_Is there still magic in the midnight sun,  
__Or did you leave is back in '61?  
__In the cadence of a young man's eyes,  
__Out where the dreams all hide._

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**A/N:** Thanks to RileysMomma for beta-reading, and my awesome friend Taylor for introducing me to this song.

All feedback is appreciated.


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